Where It Went Wrong
by AwkwardedOut
Summary: Hermione Granger had not wanted to do it, but she saw no other choice for a life free of him. It was not a matter of what she wanted. It was a matter of sanity, of freedom, of life, all of which had been taken from her.
1. The Tragedy

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, be it the materials/characters from the books or the movies, etc.

**The Tragedy:**

One hand lunged at the nearest object and grabbed the edge of the table before him, his fingers so tight on the wood that his knuckles turned white. The other hand wrapped around his throat. His face gradually turned red like the freckles that dotted it, then darkened to purple as he went longer without air in his lungs. No matter how hard he tried to suck in a lungful of air, it could not bypass the obstruction lodged in his windpipe, nor did pounding desperately at his chest with a fist serve to dislodge it. He tried to call for help, but a strangled noise was the only sound he was capable of as he fell to his knees. The other guests in the large ballroom seemed not to notice what was happening to the red-haired man who knelt on the floor.

His vision began to darken when his upper body fell onto the hard wood floor, causing a heavy thud and the sound of expensive plates being broken. The noise seemed to alert the other guests to his plight. Suddenly, there was the swish of many robes and the clatter of numerous heels that rushed toward him. Only moments later, frantic shouting could be heard in the corner by the entrance as the first responders recognized the person struggling to breathe on the floor.

"It's Ron Weasley!" Someone shouted, and that shout caused a ripple through the entire gathering, from the ones who were closest to the choking man to the far corners of the room.

* * *

><p>There was suddenly a loud commotion in the ballroom, and it distracted the man across from her. The brown-haired woman tilted her head slightly to the side. "Arthur?" She said. The man, her father-in-law, turned back to her upon hearing his name. "Sorry there, Hermione. Thought I heard Ron's name being shouted."<p>

At this, she turned in the direction that Arthur Weasley had been looking and saw that a large crowd was moving towards the corner of the ballroom near the entrance. In fact, a sizeable group of people was already there, huddled over something. Suddenly, a thin woman with large eyes and dirty-blonde hair separated herself from the other bodies and rushed towards them. When she reached Hermione and Arthur, Hermione recognized her as Luna Lovegood from the radishes that hung from her ears, her customary choice of jewelry even after all these years.

"Miss Lovegood! How lovely to see you here." Arthur greeted the girl, but she only gasped and shook her head, then bent over to place her hands on her knees for a moment.

Hermione noticed that something was wrong. This was not the usual way Luna behaved. "Luna, what is it?" She asked.

Luna turned her wide eyes on Hermione, gathered her breath and spoke, "Ron is in trouble."

Her declaration was met with a moment of stunned silence, and Hermione could feel the sudden lack of chatter behind her as well. The other Weasleys, close by, had heard.

"What's happened to Ron?" She heard Harry ask behind her, his voice louder in his panic, but she had already rushed towards the large crowd. She had to see Ron, had to see for herself. She desperately pushed and shoved her way through all those people, not bothering to apologize or excuse herself, not bothering to wait for them to make way, and no one protested the rudeness. Not when they saw who she was. When she managed to stumble through the last barrier of bodies into a small, open area, she saw a figure lying on the polished floor.


	2. The Shock

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, be it the materials/characters from the books or the movies, etc.

**The Shock: **

Hermione realized her breathing had stopped when her lungs began to sting. She forced in first one shaky breath, then another. She concentrated on the hazy sight before her and her vision slowly re-focused. That's when she realized that there were in fact two figures on the floor. One man knelt on his knee, his white-haired head bent forward and his back facing her. The other lay on his back, legs spread apart, but she couldn't see the upper half of his body and his face was not visible due to the kneeling man who hovered over it. Perhaps it wasn't true. Perhaps it was not Ron at all, but some other wizard who had collapsed. She couldn't actually see the man lying on the floor, after all. And yet, her heart clenched painfully because she realized that she recognized those robes.

A sob escaped her mouth and she rushed forward, meaning to dump herself onto her husband's body, but strong hands grabbed her shoulders and she could not move any closer to the form on the ground. The form with legs covered in her husband's robes and the feet in those boots she had hated. After several attempts of fruitless struggle, she whipped around, ready to snap at the person who held her back. Her eyes widened as she saw that the hands belonged to her father-in-law and the words died in her throat. Tears began to fall from her eyes and she rushed into Arthur Weasley's arms.

She didn't know how long she clung to him, but she only just began to register the wet streaks that traveled down the back of her neck. They were the steadily falling tears of the person who held her. She could hear the rendering sobs of a man who was truly heartbroken. Not her cries, then. Somewhat awkwardly, Hermione patted Arthur's back a couple of times, then tried to separate herself from him. Reluctantly, he loosened his hold on her, but took her hand and gripped it tightly in his. He was determined that she would not see his youngest son the way he was now.

Despite Hermione's tearful protests, Arthur led her back through the crowd to the far side of the ballroom, where all the decorations still glittered cheerily, completely unconcerned that a tragic event had just taken place. Arthur conjured two chairs and forced Hermione into one before he took the other for himself. As soon as he sat down, Arthur leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and placed his head in his hands. As soon as he had closed his eyes, the sorrow washed over him. He had never thought he would outlive two of his sons. Wizards typically enjoyed longer lifespans than average Muggles, and as such, Arthur should have lived to see his children grown, his children's children grown, and maybe, even their children. But this, outliving first one son, and then another, it was not a future he could have ever foreseen.

The grief he felt from Fred's death had only gradually subsided over the past seven years, and now he had another son to mourn. Sometimes Arthur wondered what he had done to deserve these punishments. If death had to claim a life, why could it not have been his own? Why did it have to be those boys who had barely experienced life?

* * *

><p>Hermione watched the man beside her, slumped over in the chair, unmoving except for the occasional suppressed sob that shook his body. Hermione tore her eyes from the heart-wrenching sight and looked across the room at the crowd that still congregated around her husband. The man who was supposed to be her husband, she thought. No. It had to be him. She had recognized the robes. Hell, she had picked them out for him before they'd left the house that evening. Then there was Arthur, who had been adamant that she not see the rest of her husband's body. He must have known too, then. Why else would he keep her from going closer? And he must have been dead, or why lead her away? If he was alive, she would have been expected at his side, helping somehow. She was only led away because there was nothing she could do. The man had been trying to protect her, but she had seen death before. During the war against Voldemort, she had seen more death, more horrors than was proper for someone her age. But this, this was supposed to be different. This was supposed to be personal, and therefore different than the mass of nameless bodies that had littered the grounds of Hogwarts. So no matter how much she needed to see her husband, to make sure that it was him, this was something she was not allowed to see.<p>

Hermione wasn't sure how long she sat in that chair, her body and mind numb, simply staring blankly into space. Before, she had stared at the four red heads and one dark mop of messy hair across the room for a while, jealous that they were allowed to be there. To see him. At one point, she thought the one with dark hair had turned around to look at her and his face—Harry's face—was streaked with tears. The sight did not move her. Nothing did. Her own face stained with tears, she turned away from the sight of her friend.

It wasn't until she heard the sound of heavy boots stomping down the hallway outside that she was brought out of her thoughts. Her head lifted to see six Aurors storm the ballroom and head directly towards the center of that throng. This time, when the members of the crowd were roughly pushed to either side, sounds of indignation could be heard. Nonetheless, the people parted more or less obediently for the Aurors to pass. Their uniform dark robes brought a shiver to Hermione's spine, and a memory came unbidden to her mind.

The image of dark robes passed before her eyes, but when she blinked, there was no one there. No one but Arthur was anywhere near her, and he hadn't moved in the last half hour. She closed her eyes and immediately saw them again. Dark robes that were a little too long, and so they dragged along the wood floor slightly; the boots that thudded against the floor toward her in the barely lit room; the voice filled with anger—always anger. Her heart quickened, her body suddenly drenched in sweat. In her mind, she looked up at the figure that now towered over her and saw it raise one arm, a wand pointed down at her. The face was in shadows, but she saw the lips move to utter a spell, and she scrambled for her own wand before—

Hermione's eyes snapped open and swiveled left to right, making sure no one had seen her— even if she wasn't certain that there had even been anything for them to see. When she looked back towards the newly arrived Aurors, she noticed that two had been posted to stand by the double doors. Their legs were firmly planted and their hands on their wands, a clear message that no one was to leave until they said so. That left four Aurors to deal with the body, to investigate what had happened.

Only when she was certain that she still went unnoticed did her panic slowly subside. She ran both hands through her hair several times. Feeling her thick hair become more unruly underneath her fingers helped calm her nerves. It was okay. It had just been a bad mem—a nightmare. It was a nightmare only, but it was finally over now.


	3. The Investigation

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, be it the materials/characters from the books or the movies, etc.

**The Investigation:**

"I want everyone to gather around here and direct your full attention to me," called out an Auror in an authoritative tone. It had been a command, not a request, and he was pleased to see it obeyed. Like herds of sheep, he thought to himself. He positioned himself behind a tall wooden podium that had originally been intended for the victory speech and recounting of how Harry Potter had single-handedly defeated the darkest wizard of the ages, to be given by the savior of the wizarding world himself. Although Harry Potter had vehemently declined, the podium had been placed in front of the large space anyway, with certainty that he would change his mind. Now, it was used to give the blonde Auror a good vantage point over the crowd, and he surveyed them coldly, his pale blue eyes unblinking. The closest to him, he saw, was the family of the deceased, plus the famous Harry Potter. His friend clearly did not have his luck at dodging death. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to observe the wife and the father slowly make their way to him as well.

When everyone had gathered, he cleared his throat for silence. A hush fell over the room. "My name is Ash Whitlock. I will be the primary investigator in charge of this case. As I am sure you all know, Ronald Weasley has died here tonight. We do not believe that a highly skilled Auror such as he could die from such a… _Muggle_ cause and it is suspected that there was foul play involved." Muttering broke out in small clusters of people at these words. Ash sent them withering glares. He did not like to be interrupted, and he already had to put up with that blasted sniffling and weeping from the crowd at large. When all focus had returned to him, he continued. "We are committed to resolving the true cause of death of a member of our own, and capturing the killer, who will then be punished to the full reaches of the law. Now, no one is to leave here until they have been thoroughly interrog—I mean, interviewed about tonight's events."

As he spoke, Ash observed the reaction to the news of everyone present, paying special attention to the family of the deceased. They certainly behaved like the grieving family they were supposed to be, shocked by the news that their son's death might not be an accident, but appearances could be deceiving. Well, if one of them was in fact pretending, he would break them soon enough. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought—bringing Ronald Weasley's murderer to justice would be a nice feather in his cap, and he might just become next in line for the position of Minister of Magic. Of course, he would need to have Kingsley Shacklebolt taken care of first, but that could all be arranged in due time. If there was in fact no murderer… Well, that shouldn't be too hard to arrange as well.

After the announcement, Ash demanded that the organizer of the event—a short, pudgy wizard who was balding—arrange a room for him to conduct his interviews. The man bowed nervously, then immediately searched the building and provided a small room with four sullen gray walls; it was only large enough to fit five people comfortably. Ash nodded approvingly—the lack of color would tell the witches and wizards who entered this room that all hope was lost; the small quarters would give them a sense of claustrophobia, which would help throw them off their game. He waved his wand and the temperature inside the room dropped a few notches. This would do. A long steel table and two wooden chairs were brought inside. Two Aurors immediately went to work securing the room with spells against infiltration and warding it in case someone attempted to escape. The same actions were being taken in the ballroom.

* * *

><p>Mr. Weasley held his wife tightly, which had allowed her to finally calm down from the racking sobs that barely allowed her a breath in-between. "Why isn't Harry in charge of the investigation?" Mrs. Weasley asked in confusion, her voice shaky.<p>

"That Whitlock person said he is too emotionally involved," Ginny replied angrily while holding onto her husband's hand, but he remained silent.

Hermione felt that she needed to say something; she couldn't afford anyone doubting her now. Not after everything she had gone through to get this far. "Of course Harry will be emotionally involved! Harry and Ron have been best friends since they were 11. That just means he'll try all the harder to solve the case, unlike those other Aurors who don't even care about Ron." Hermione said heatedly.

"That's the Hermione we know," George said.

"Hermione's right. Those people are too stupid to see that Harry is the best man for the job of catching our baby brother's killer." Charlie added. The elder Weasleys merely nodded in agreement.

She saw Harry shoot her a grateful look that was tinged with sadness. She wanted to look away, but forced herself to meet his gaze and give a tiny nod. She had been afraid that he would see the truth on her face or in her eyes, but discarded that thought. Harry was no Legilimens, and even if he was, she had her defenses.

In truth, Hermione had suspected such a thing would happen. Harry's emotions would have certainly clouded his judgment during the investigation, and that would have helped, but she had anticipated the possibility of another Auror being put in charge, one who didn't trust her unconditionally. She had therefore prepared for it accordingly.

* * *

><p>Ash dismissed the wizard before him in disgust and told the Auror standing at his right shoulder to bring in the next person. The woman turned around and disappeared through the door. How many was that now? Too many, Ash decided. Too many blathering witches and wizards who had seen nothing, who had not even noticed the man was choking until he was already collapsed on the floor. Even then, it had probably been the sound of expensive dishware breaking that really drew their attention.<p>

The door opened and his subordinate led a man into the room. He had a head of long white hair that had been pulled into a ponytail, a long face that was surprisingly free of wrinkles despite his age, and a deep frown on his face. Ash leaned forward slightly as the older wizard sat down on the opposite side of the table. This looked like a man with a story to tell.


	4. The Interview

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, be it the materials/characters from the books or the movies, etc.

**The Interview:**

The old wizard entered the interview room, walked to the other side of the table and took the seat opposite Ash. The woman who had brought him there closed the door, warded it, and resumed her position at her superior's back. Ash recognized this one—he was the one who had crouched by the Weasley and performed tests on him before the Aurors had arrived.

"What is your name?" Ash started off the interview.

"Christopher Alden," the man replied.

"What is your occupation, Mr. Alden?"

"I am retired now, but I worked for over sixty years as a diagnostician at St. Mungo's Hospital previous to that."

"I see. What were your duties during that time?"

"I diagnosed the ailments of hospital patients through conducting tests and examining symptoms. I also applied treatments to the patients if the option was available."

"Would you consider yourself knowledgeable in this field?"

"I have over six decades of experience dealing with patients who had anything from the common cold to Spattergroit." He fixed his interviewer with a hard stare.

"Sniffling and large, purple, pus-filled zits—that certainly sounds like a wealth of experience worthy of those sixty years." Ash smiled condescendingly.

The frown from when Alden had first entered the room deepened. "Do not patronize me, Mr. Whitlock."

Ash studied the expression on the older wizard's face, trying to read him. "You seem disapproving of me, Mr. Alden. Why is that?"

"I know the likes of you. You're ambitious and you want power, as much of it as fast as you can snatch it with your greedy little hands. But this—what you are doing to that poor man's family—is wrong. You are setting them on the path for revenge—"

"This is not a matter for civilians to pursue and there will be no revenge. My team, and my team alone, will be handling the investigation of the murder of Ronald Weasley." Ash interrupted.

"But that's just it! There is no murder to investigate, and yet you stood in front of all those people, blatantly telling lies!" Alden burst out angrily.

"What do you mean by that?" Ash asked, an edge creeping into his voice.

Ignoring his change in tone, Alden proceeded to lecture the younger man before him. "You know perfectly well what I mean. We were both there with the body. Both I and your Aurors performed spells to determine the cause of death. There were no outward marks or indication of potions in his system, nothing—absolutely nothing to indicate that the boy had been hit with a killing curse or poisoned. You have no basis for your investigation, and no right to tell everyone out there that the boy had been murdered. This is nothing more than your attempt to gain greater authority in the Ministry, and you're using that family's loss to do it."

Observant old man, Ash thought to himself, but he maintained a neutral mask, never revealing what lay behind his calm exterior. While he did not care what this old man had to say, he did not want this person to stir up any trouble for him in the future. It would be best to crush the disbelievers early. He would just have to convince the old man that his intentions were good. That decided, Ash leaned forward, put his hands flat on the steel table, and summoning an earnest quality to his voice, he spoke. "I'm afraid you are very much mistaken. I did not announce Ron Weasley's death as a murder on a whim or in order to further my career. The circumstances of his death are suspicious, and I would not be doing my job properly if I dismissed the possibility of outside influence without an investigation. Furthermore, if it was a murder, then there is a killer on the loose, and he could kill again while we ignorantly file this case away as an accident. What if this person is going after celebrated war heroes? What if his next target is Harry Potter himself? If he succeeds, I would once more fail my responsibilities as a protector of the wizarding world for not catching him first."

Despite his disapproval of the man, Alden couldn't help but snort at the speech about duty and protecting the wizarding world. "I have to give it to you, Whitlock, you are a crafty one."

In his mind, Whitlock accepted the old man's words as a compliment. Outwardly, he still pretended to care about what happened to the wizarding public at large. "I'm serious, Mr. Alden. Now, tell me about tonight's events."

* * *

><p>"And his face was a dark red!" The woman declared excitedly.<p>

"Red. Really." Ash could feel the beginnings of a headache in the form of dull throbbing at his temples.

"_Dark_ red! It was such a vivid color!" She gesticulated wildly, trying to find something for comparison. "Like a cherry!" She said triumphantly.

"I see. And did you attempt to help him at all?" Ash ground out, annoyed by the witch's high-pitched voice.

"H-help him? I-I… Well you see, I was quite far away at the time, and by the time I got there…"

* * *

><p>"When did you realize that something was… Why are you wearing radishes in your ears?" He asked, distracted by the vegetables that swung below her lobes.<p>

"They're to help keep the Nargles away," the woman replied serenely, unaffected by his obvious staring.

"The _what_?"

"The Nargles. They're really mischievous creatures that like to infest mistletoe. There weren't any mistletoe at this party, which decreased the chances of attracting them, but they also like to inhabit other plants as well, so you can never be too careful." She explained patiently, because not everyone was familiar with these magical creatures.

"….When did you realize that something was wrong with Ron Weasley?" Ash continued, deciding to ignore the red bulbs and the nonsensical explanation for them.

* * *

><p>"You're saying someone in a black cloak and mask came into the ballroom and this person is the one who poisoned Ron Wealsey."<p>

"Exactly," replied an old man. His eyes were constantly moving underneath bushy white brows, never in the same spot twice, as if he expected an assassin to spring from the walls at any moment.

"No one else has mentioned this mysterious cloaked person," Ash prodded him.

"That's because he was invisible," the old man stated simply.

"Then how did you know he was there?" The things coming from this person had gone from dubious to downright ridiculous, and his headache was coming back again.

"I was subjected to testing by the Ministry when I was a boy. It was top-secret, and only the Minister and a select few knew about it. They conducted experiments on me with spells and potions. I escaped so they couldn't experiment on me anymore, but now I can see through Disillusionment Charms, invisibility, doors, buildings, minds…" The man focused his furtive eyes on Ash and appeared as if he was pulling secrets out of those pale blue eyes.

* * *

><p>"Bring me someone who looks like they have half a brain this time," Ash growled at his subordinate as she left to retrieve another person from the barely dwindling queue. A few minutes later, he was mildly relieved to see that it was the wife of the deceased who next walked through the door. Finally, someone sane.<p>

Hermione's eyes were red-rimmed, a sign that she had been crying; her hair was disheveled from the way she constantly ran her palms through it; she had an exhausted air about her that told anyone who saw her that she had been through a lot.

She certainly looked upset, Ash admitted to himself, but perhaps that was just an act. She appeared to fidget nervously in her seat—a sign of guilt, perhaps? After all, in a murder investigation, the spouse was always the first suspect.

"Was Ron really murdered?" She asked suddenly, interrupting Ash's train of thought.

"It is a theory, but more must be done before we can be absolutely certain." It was a logical enough question, but he had to wonder what her intent was for asking.

"So you do think it was murder," Hermione whispered, her eyes wide—in what? Surprise? Horror? Fear? As Ash pondered this, he saw her expression change to one of determination. "I want to help," she stated.

His tone was arrogant when he said to her, "Mrs. Weasley, you will be of most help by answering my questions and leaving the rest to us."

Hermione's eyes blazed with a momentary anger. He saw it for only second before it disappeared completely. She lowered her head and nodded tiredly. Curious, he thought as he gazed at her, unable to see what lay in her eyes for the wild hair that screened them.

* * *

><p>Ginny slammed the palms of her hands down on the table, startling everyone in the room except the person whom she addressed. "He is my <em>brother <em>and my husband's _best friend_!" She shouted.

Ash stared at the angry woman with disinterest. He was not impressed by these over-the-top emotional displays. He was beginning to suspect that the tears were less for her brother's death and more for added effect in her theatrics. How Harry Potter dealt with her crying and shrieking like a banshee everyday was quite beyond him. Then again, he was Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, and he must therefore have some magical powers over the regular wizard—such as the power to withstand his wife's hysterics. It was just as well, really, that he had pushed off her pestering and questions until the end, or he probably would not have gotten anything but screaming out of her. Well, time to throw her out, he thought cheerily.

"Mrs. Potter, for the last time, just because Ron Weasley _was_ your brother and _was_ your husband's best friend does not make it obligatory for me to allow your husband into my investigation. I might as well let anyone who has ever set eyes on the man in on the case—I'm sure that would be as much of a help." He replied sarcastically.

When she opened her mouth to respond, he raised his hand to stop her next rant, effectively cutting it off before it started. He hid his surprise that she had actually kept silent; his next option would've been to use a Silencing Charm on her, but oh well. He motioned to the man at his left to take her away. The rather large man of six feet six inches made his way around the table and, in a slightly uneasy manner, asked for the glaring woman to leave with him.

Ginny reluctantly rose from her seat, shot Ash a poisonous look, then proceeded to the door. "This isn't over," she hissed over her shoulder before walking past the uncomfortable Auror who held the door for her. He followed her silently, his expression slightly dismayed.

When the door slammed shut behind them, Ash tipped his chair onto its two back legs, balancing it carefully. It would be a few minutes before Theo returned with someone else.

"You have a way with women, sir," said Dru, the female Auror who had remained in the room.

"So everyone keeps telling me. I really would have preferred it if Theo had grabbed her and thrown her out the door."

"Sir, you know Theo would never do that. People are intimidated by his size, but he doesn't live up to those expectations."

"Yeah, and I just pay him to stand here and look pretty," Ash grumbled.

Dru smiled, but said nothing as just then the door opened to let in another guest who had attended the event. She had schooled her face back into a neutral mask by the time the person sat down. It was going to be a long night.


	5. The Summons

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, be it the materials/characters from the books or the movies, etc.

**The Summons:**

Ash, now back in his office, he held a pen between his fingers that drummed rhythmically against his wooden desk. He preferred pens to quills—a Muggle habit he never quite overcame. Pens produced a nice tapping sound that quills could never quite imitate, and the ink did not constantly need to be replenished. Along to the tapping, Ash went over the day's events in his mind.

* * *

><p>The summons had come in the form of a man who looked rather disheveled from whichever form of entry into the Ministry building he had chosen. He must have been taken off guard in his haste, if the missing length of material from his robes was anything to go by, but the man himself hardly noticed as he ran into the Aurors Department and started shouting incoherently. Upon listening to the babbling speech, four important words were deciphered. Death. Weasley. Crash. Choked.<p>

Ash had immediately summoned his team and set out to the site after making sure someone remained at the office with the messenger until they returned. They Apparated to the site described, an old building that appeared dilapidated and abandoned on the outside, but was magically renovated on the inside to accommodate several hundred occupants. They entered to find a large lobby in which a female receptionist waited with a clipboard and guest list.

"We've been expecting you, Sir. Please follow me." The woman immediately turned on her heel and walked down a hall to the right. Ash and his crew followed. The sounds of their heavy boots coming down on the hard floor echoed down the empty hallway. When they reached the large double doors, the doors swung open on their own to reveal the scene beyond.

Everything was bathed in a warm golden glow that seemed to emit from the very walls. A large chandelier hung from the high ceiling, the small crystal shards glittering. The walls were lined with tables upon which sat half-empty plates of discarded food, cold and forgotten. Ash motioned for two members of his team to stay by the doors while the remaining ones forged a path in the mass of pressing bodies for him to pass through.

He came upon a space clear of nosy onlookers—even the ones at the front of the crowd gave the body a moderately wide berth. As he stared down at the lifeless corpse before him, he asked the receptionist still at his side, "Has anybody touched the body?"

The woman nodded. "Yes. There was one wizard who began attempting to help the choking man when he realized what was transpiring."

"Only one wizard?" Ash asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes, Sir," the woman replied.

"I can't say I'm terribly impressed by that, and clearly, he did not succeed. What did he do afterwards?"

"He began performing tests on the body to determine the cause of death. When asked what his qualifications were, he stated that he was a former St. Mungo's employee. With no one to contest him, he continued to do as he wished." The woman said this flatly, with no obvious emotion; it was merely a statement of facts to her, not something involving the death of a person.

"And who might this valiant wizard be?"

The woman turned around to scan the observing crowd that was pushing and shoving to see what was occurring while not getting too close to the deceased. "At your six. Five feet back. An older man with white hair tied in the back and brown eyes; talking to a hysterical red-headed woman. I can only assume she is the mother of the deceased."

Ash turned in the direction indicated by the receptionist and saw the person immediately. He would get the chance to question the person later, and so filed the man's face into his memory until then. Obviously, thanks to the meddling of civilians—one civilian, Ash corrected himself, as no one else deemed it necessary to help a dying man—the body had been moved. What was important now was to salvage what clues they could from the situation.

"Trent, I'll leave the substances to you. Beck, you handle the spells." Ash said. His subordinates stepped forward and went about their assigned tasks.

Trent, a man with unusually pale skin that contrasted sharply with his jet black hair and equally dark eyes, untied a small black pouch he normally carried on his hip. From it, he withdrew a long steel box from its depths, which had been amplified with the aid of an Undetectable Extension Charm. He unclasped the lid of the metal container and removed from it a pack of swabs. With a swish of his wand, the swabs magically flew out of their package and immediately applied themselves to various areas on and around the deceased, gathered samples from each area, then flew into individual small glass vials. Once a sample had entered a vial, the vial stoppered itself and a neat black label appeared on the glass that indicated from where the sample had been taken.

Meanwhile, Beck stood with his wand held over the body, making the occasional flick, swish, or jab as he muttered spells beneath his breath. Beck was a man with light brown skin and black eyes that were intense in concentration. His head was topped with spiky, electric blue hair that, although it wasn't quite as uncommon in Muggle society these days, still drew quite a few stares from his fellow wizards.

Ash stood on the sidelines with the remaining member of his team, the only one who had not been assigned a task. Together, they watched Trent and Beck performing their work.

"How do we know that this is the real Ron Weasley?" Ash asked the man beside him. Just because he wasn't working with his wand didn't mean he didn't have to work with his mind.

"All spells to alter his appearance that were cast on him… prior to his death would have ended when he died, reverting him back to his original form, Sir," answered the dark blonde man nervously, blinking to keep the sweat from his eyes.

"What about spells cast post mortem?" Ash pressed.

"I... We will conduct spells upon Ro… the bod… the victim… to cancel such spells," came the reply, the man's voice trembling slightly as he fumbled for the proper words.

"Indeed," replied Ash. "What about Polyjuice?"

"One dose of Polyjuice Potion on average lasts… an hour. A larger dose will last longer."

Ash did not reply to this, merely crossed his arms across his chest and waited. The dark blonde man knew that pose meant he'd forgotten something important. He wracked his brain furiously to remember the rest of the answer. Finally, he hit upon something he'd heard from Harry a long time—years—ago. An unusual plot that had fooled them all.

"He would maintain the assumed form upon death… and would not revert back to his original form." The man paused as the implications of what he had just said hit him. He looked up at his superior with new hope in his dark eyes. "Does that mean…?"

Ash frowned. "It is highly unlikely, although we cannot be certain until we further examine him back at the Ministry, but don't get your hopes up." He told the younger man, whose face immediately fell.

The only reply was a soft, "Oh."

"Neville, you were well-acquainted with him, were you not?" Ash asked, gesturing at the sprawled figure.

Neville nodded. "We attended Hogwarts together. Ron, Hermione, Harry and I. After Hogwarts… we carried out our training and two-year probationary term as Aurors together too. Except Hermione, of course."

"Why not her?" Ash questioned. To an outside observer, it would have seemed as if Ash was curious despite himself, or merely making conversation with a subordinate and trying to take his mind off the death of a friend, but someone who knew him would realize that he was gathering information—perhaps useful information—from the people around him. If those people happened to be close to the ones involved, then all the better.

"Hermione didn't… After the war, she didn't want to fight anymore. She did work in the Ministry, just not in Law Enforcement."

"But as I understand it, she is not currently employed by any department in the Ministry, Law Enforcement or otherwise." Ash commented.

"No, she… Well, she resigned. I'm not quite sure why."

"A smart witch like her, on good terms with the current Minister, no less, could have made a lot of changes in the Ministry."

"When I asked R-Ron about it, he said she just wanted to be a housewife for a while. I was surprised. It just didn't sound like the Hermione I knew." Neville had trouble saying his friend's name, knowing that his body was only a few feet away being closely examined by his colleagues.

"Everyone dies, Neville. Some, before their time, but everyone dies." It was probably the closest Ash would ever come to consoling another person, and it was barely that. He only did it at all because he rarely saw the usually cheerful man in such a depressed state. He was always nervous, fearful, or dreading the mistakes he would make, but in Ash's time with him, the closest Neville had been to being this despondent was when he thought he had not passed the probationary term and would be sacked from his post. This time, the sorrow undoubtedly ran a lot deeper.

"I've finished with the tests," Beck said as he joined Ash and Neville by the tables. "Trent's about finished too," he added.

Ash nodded approvingly. "You and Neville can wrap up here while I conduct the interviews, then." Turning to the receptionist, he told her that Trent would accompany her to gather the entire staff working at the event that night and bring them back to be investigated. Her sharp heels rapped the floor as she collected the pale man and left with him.

"Yes, Sir." Beck motioned at Neville to return to the body with him. Neville steeled his emotions and followed for his first close-up look at his former friend.

* * *

><p>When the team returned to the Ministry, Ash had interviewed the messenger, taken his statement and sent the wizard home before he retired to his office. The rest of his team were left up to their own devices. A few wandered off while a couple remained in the large room that served as a community work area.<p>

Neville sat at his desk in the Auror Department. It was a large space that contained very little in the way of decoration, but held ten metal desks for the ten Aurors employed by the Ministry, not including the private offices occupied by the team leaders. Currently, Ash held one. Harry Potter, recently promoted to a team leader, held another. No one had yet been assigned to the post of Head of the Auror Department after the previous Head, Gawain Robard, had retired.

Neville was unsure where most of his colleagues were, but figured they'd found something to occupy their time for a couple hours. Of those who remained, there was Beck, who sat at a desk across from Neville and had his face pressed into a pillow transfigured from a quill on his desk. His shocking blue hair went quite well with the white of the pillow underneath. A line of drool ran down his chin and formed a small pool on the fabric. There was also Dru, who was stationed at the desk beside Neville. Her body was slumped forward to allow her head to rest against the tabletop; she had been so tired that her attempt at transfiguring a pillow ended up as a mess of feathers. She had promptly given up and gone to sleep without one. Brown bangs fell over her closed eyes, occasionally fanning out gently when she breathed out.

Unable to follow the others' examples and catch a few hours' sleep, Neville had decided to get some paperwork completed, and so he transferred his stare from the origami messengers flying across the ceiling to the parchment before him. However, as hard as he tried to concentrate, he couldn't see the words written on it. The ink blurred in his vision and he couldn't focus his eyes. He could only see that ballroom, the eerie lights casting long shadows he couldn't recall being there the first time, and the person on the floor staring up at him with those clouded blue eyes.

* * *

><p>He literally looked drained of life—his blood no longer flowed, the color and heat drained from his body to leave it cold and stark white. The hands were shaped into claws that were stiff at his sides—obviously moved from their original position, probably at his slightly bloody throat. The eyes stared up at the ceiling high above them, wide, glassy, unseeing. His mouth hung open with his lips slightly parted. His face was frozen in a mixture of shock, fear, and the realization that death was upon him.<p>

Neville couldn't stand seeing his friend like this. Despite all the Death Eaters Neville had helped to hunt down in the last seven years, some of whom had chosen death over the Dementor's Kiss, he could not get used to this sight. This—this reminded him too much of the battle at Hogwarts, of all of his classmates who had fallen. He hadn't wanted to see this again. It was one of the reasons he had become an Auror—to protect those he was closest to.

Trent must have seen the anguish Neville couldn't quite contain, for when he stood up from his kneeling position, he placed a firm hand on the younger man's shoulder and squeezed it tightly. "Nothing is for sure yet. We'll figure this out, okay?" He told Neville.

Neville nodded numbly. Trent was right. This was all routine. Nothing had been confirmed. Ron could have died of an accident, and that—although still tragic—would have been a small comfort. Yes, it would have been a small comfort to know that he had not failed another friend.

* * *

><p>Neville shot up in his chair and almost fell back down. He turned his stinging eyes to the clock hanging on the far wall and noticed that it was eight in the morning. Their three hours were up, and yet it had felt like only a few seconds had passed. He must have dozed off without realizing it, and during his own unintentional sleep, the others had returned to their desks to close their eyes for a time as well.<p>

"All right, naptime's over. We still have work to do." Ash called from the doorway to his office. Looking around, he made sure that everyone was getting up from their desks—groggy and reluctant though they may be.


	6. The Denial

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, be it the materials/characters from the books or the movies, etc.

**The Denial:**

Ever since that day, she had barely left the two-story house unless it was absolutely necessary, which it never was, except when she had needed to attend the funeral. She holed herself up in the building as if it were a jail, afraid to leave lest he came back and was angry with her. He would be angry that she had left, that she had not been waiting for his return, that she did not love him. It was ridiculous, she knew, but she couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that he would never stride through the front door again, that he would never again yell her name as soon as he returned and go searching the house for her. Since she would never go to him, he always went to her. Sometimes he would tread heavily down the hallways, making sure she could hear where he was at all times, taunting her as he stomped closer to her hiding place, which had always just been the closest thing that she could slip into or crouch behind. Yet, even Disillusioned, he always managed to find her eventually. Other times, he would purposely soften his steps, making no noise at all, making her die of anticipation as she wondered where he was, whether it was safe to switch hiding spots, or how long she would be forced to press herself against the wall of the dark closet.

I'm completely isolated here; this isn't so different from before he di—well, just before, Hermione thought to herself in a moment of clarity. She sat huddled in a corner of the master bedroom with her legs pulled up and her face buried in the hollow space between her knees and chest. The hard wood underneath her was cold and uncomfortable, but she didn't care. Every time she heard a creak or groan from the old house, simply because it was old, she jumped a little and her hand tightened on her wand. She had to Disillusion herself and hide—wait, no. That was stupid. No one was there. No one had slammed the front door shut. There was no one yelling her name up the stairs. There were no steps ascending the creaky staircase. There was no one coming to find her. He was gone. Gone forever.

A quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall told her it was five. Her stomach growling told her it was time to make dinner. With great effort, Hermione got up from the floor. She could feel the tingling start at her bare feet and travel up her legs. That painful tingling that meant her feet and legs had fallen asleep from being in that position too long. She winced and grabbed the nightstand by her bed until the prickly pins-and-needles feeling had passed.

When she could move her legs without pain again, she headed to the bedroom door. She cautiously opened it—and nearly slammed it shut again. Only with the greatest effort did she restrain herself. She had heard a sound downstairs—a crash—when there shouldn't have been.

* * *

><p>"There was nothing in his system at all?" Ash asked the man who stood before his desk.<p>

"That's what the report says," the person replied airily, tossing back his shoulder-length blonde hair.

"Roderick…" Ash growled.

"Okay, okay," Roderick said, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. He straightened his non-regulation silver vest and cleared his throat. "There weren't any potions _in_ his system. In fact, the only things in him would be the food in his stomach—and there was a lot, I tell you. Barely half an hour into the festivities and he's devoured enough to fill three people. I'm surprised it wasn't his stomach exploding that killed him." At a glare from Ash, Roderick decided he should probably get back to the point. "But, there was one unusual substance found on the exterior of his body. I noticed it when I was examining him in the lab. A bit of color to his lips. This was odd because he was not the type of person who cared about his appearance." He wrinkled his nose in mild disdain.

"And? Have you identified it?"

"Not yet. Working on it."

"What about spells?"

"No spells were active on his person. Although, I have to say, when I examined his wand, I noticed that he frequently cast a lot of hexes and other not-so-happy spells."

"He ran into trouble on his missions, then," Ash surmised.

Roderick shrugged in response. "If you say so, but some of them weren't so typical. At least nothing I would use in a duel."

"Because you've been in so many. Has his widow made an appointment for an interview yet?"

"No. I only just owled her today." Roderick sighed. He didn't see why he had to do this when everything was spelled out in the piece of parchment in his leader's hand. He was probably just doing this to torture him.

"It's punishment for your choice in clothing," Ash said, appearing to have read Roderick's mind, a small smile on his thin lips.

Roderick looked affronted. "Muggle clothes can be very stylish," he defended himself. "Especially when I'm the one wearing them. Besides, wizards robes are so last century."

"Those vests and jeans aren't regulation. No one would even know you were an Auror by the way you're dressed."

The man rolled his green eyes. "I have a desk job. I don't go out in the field. Nobody's going to see me."

Ash shook his head in defeat and waved the other away. Roderick gave a lazy mock salute before leaving the office, planning to search for the pretty clerk in Law Enforcement during his well-earned two-hour break.

Ash turned to the long length of parchment before him. "An unidentified substance on his lips and unusual spells by his wand," he mused. "Not exactly a treasure trove of clues."

* * *

><p>Hermione crouched in the dark hallway with her wand clutched in a death grip, her breathing shallow. In her head, she ran through a list of entry points to the house. The front door was locked, but with magic, it wouldn't be difficult to open; the windows were the same; the fireplace wasn't warded, but the person who used it would have to know exactly where in the Floo Network to get off. Either way, she would start by checking the living room, as that was the only accessible part of the first floor from upstairs.<p>

She crept towards the banister where she could look down into the living room and hopefully catch a glimpse of the intruder. She leaned herself against the wall and slowly angled her head around it to glimpse between the bars of the railing. This afforded her a view of the entryway to the opposite hallway and part of the living room. Both were empty. She strained her ears to catch the sound of the intruders, but all she heard was flapping, then a crash and a shriek of pain.

The noise came from underneath her hiding place. She rushed down the stairs and turned toward the fireplace. Her suspicions were confirmed. There, lying in the bed of her fireplace was a tawny barn owl that gave her an indignant shriek. It had clearly flown through the chimney to enter the house, but was met with the metal gate Hermione had placed over the mouth to deter visitors. That had been the source of the crashes she'd heard.

She removed the gate and freed the bird, which immediately flew into the living room, sprinkling soot all over the rug. Hermione gave a small grimace, but left the mess for later. She went into the kitchen through a set of swinging doors and retrieved a box of biscuits from a cabinet. She gave the owl a treat for delivering the letter, then another in apology for it smashing into the gate.

"No grudges, okay? I've had enough of those for a lifetime." The barn owl hooted appreciatively as she fed it another biscuit before untying the roll of parchment on its leg. The owl looked at her expectantly with large black eyes. She shivered slightly. Even after living most of her life in the wizarding world, where owls were the most common means of delivering post, she still couldn't get over how creepy their eyes were, or the almost complete lack of discernable features of their face. There was just the long ridge that led to a beak and the close-set eyes on either side. She tried to give a reassuring smile as she said, "I'll send a reply later."

Apparently satisfied by this answer, the owl, with large patches of gray coating its brown feathers, flapped its wings and took flight. Hermione sighed when it had flown up the chimney. She returned to the living room, lifted her wand and whispered a quick _Evanesco_ to vanish the soot from her floor and furniture. With that taken care of, she unrolled the parchment and skimmed it over.

A moment later, Hermione lowered the letter. The Auror Whitlock wanted to conduct another interview. That wasn't so unusual, but what she didn't understand was the line at the end:

_Dress for the occasion._

What, did he expect her in a skirt and heels? This wasn't a date. "Rubbish." She balled the parchment in her fist and tossed it over her shoulder, not even bothering to check where it had landed. She got up and returned to the kitchen to prepare a dinner for two. Ron would be back any minute, and he would be angry if he was kept waiting.


	7. The Anger

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, be it the materials/characters from the books or the movies, etc.

**The Anger:**

Those clothes. His clothes. Every time she looked at them, she was reminded of him, of everything he had done, everything he had said, and she couldn't feel what she was supposed to, what she had strived so long for. Instead, she was tortured by the possibility that all her efforts had been in vain. One day, she simply couldn't take it anymore.

Before her mind could fully grasp what her body was doing, she had ripped the drawers from the dresser and tossed their contents onto the floor. She tore his clothes from the bar in the closet—hangers and all. There was a savagery to her movements as she emptied the bedroom of every trace of her husband. The pile of clothes and knickknacks on the floor was dragged over to the railing and tossed over the side, landing in a heap of garment and broken glass on the floor below. It took two more trips for her to get everything.

Now standing in the living room, she eyed the fireplace. That was when she noticed the person staring back at her. There were three pictures that sat on the mantel jutting out over the fireplace. The pictures were carefully and lovingly framed. Ron and Hermione smiled from every frame to show everyone how happy they were together, how in love they were with each other. In one, Ron had his arm thrown across Hermione's shoulders, a big lopsided grin on his face. In the second, the Ron inside the photo looked like the happiest man in the world as he stood across from Hermione at their wedding ceremony, his face bright red. In the third, they were standing in that very living room she occupied now, rows of boxes lined up in the background. They had just moved into their first home together. None of these were moving photographs, and it was probably just as well. If they had been, probably one or both of the figures would no longer be in the frames, having abandoned their posts long ago. As it were, the Ron in these moments, frozen in time, looked out at Hermione with familiar blue eyes she had not seen in a very long time. She saw no reproach in them, no hatred. It was as if everything had still been as they were. With one sweeping motion, she knocked all the photographs off the mantel and onto the hardwood floor, where the glass cracked, distorting their faces. Looking at the result, she felt a savage pleasure—this was reality.

She had emptied every drawer and cabinet in the room of his possessions, making sure nothing escaped her. Still in the throes of impulse, she hurled all the contents she had collected into the hearth. Everything went in. Finally, she turned towards the fireplace with her wand in hand and set the large heap of clothes and other items—including their wedding photograph—on fire.

She had been so focused on the orange blaze that sprung up, hungrily feeding off the fabric and wood, that she hadn't noticed the sound of her front door opening, or the two people who stepped inside until a shriek came from behind and caused her to whip around.

* * *

><p>"What in blazes are you doing?" Ginny screamed at Hermione from the living room entrance.<p>

Startled by a voice other than her own—and even that would have been strange, for she couldn't remember the last time she had spoken aloud—Hermione whirled around. She found Harry and Ginny framed in the archway that led into the living room. Harry's eyes were round with surprise and Ginny was staring at her as if she was demented. Hermione's own eyes were maniacally lit, aglow from the dancing flames reflected in them. Or perhaps those brown eyes were actually lit with a mania from within. In the latter case, Ginny probably wasn't too far off the mark.

The appearance of people had shocked Hermione back into her senses. As the three stared at one another in silence, a thought occurred to Hermione. How long had they been standing there? How much had they seen? Hermione wracked her brain for a reason—any reason—for what they had just witnessed.

"Hermione, the rug!" Ginny cried, interrupting Hermione's mental struggle. She was urgently pointing behind Hermione to where the haphazard heap had spilled onto the floor, allowing strands of fire to lick the rug laying there. Before the witch could even react, Harry had already raced across the living room and tossed the half-burned clothes back into the hearth before he stomped out the flames spreading on the rug.

After the fire had been put out, Hermione discovered that the palms of Harry's hands were slightly burnt, but it was not a serious injury. She went into the kitchen and opened the pantry. Inside, where normal households would store food or provisions, were shelves she had filled with rows upon rows of large glass containers.

"What is all that?" Ginny asked from behind. Her two uninvited guests had followed her into the kitchen.

Hermione, taken off guard, nearly pulled her wand on the intruders, but restrained herself at the very last moment. Forcing a nonchalant tone, she said, "Just a few balms and potions."

"A _few_? You have enough in there to supply St. Mungo's for a month," Ginny replied.

That mocking quality must run in the Weasley family, and it had been one of the things Hermione had never wanted to hear again. She ground her teeth, but what could she tell them? How could she explain? In the end, she decided on what was as close to the truth as possible. "It was… necessary."

"For Ron, right?" Harry's soft voice asked.

She gasped and turned to look at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Had he understood? Just from that? She had not expected Harry to be so perceptive, but why suddenly now? Why not before, when Ron had been alive? She stood gawking at Harry for several silent seconds, her mouth slightly open in shock.

"Yes, for Ron," she answered, unsure what to feel.

Harry turned to address the look of confusion that clouded Ginny's face. "For Ron's injuries from the job," he explained.

Hermione's heart fell. Her brain finally registered his slightly moist green eyes, the sympathy expressed on his features, and his words. _For Ron_. She clamped her mouth shut and turned back to the shelves.

"Can't you guys just get healers from the Ministry or St. Mungo's?" asked Ginny. Noting the silence that greeted this question, she hurriedly added, "Of course, I could do that for you, too." She shot her husband a smile and reached for his hand.

Since her back was turned, Hermione's expression of disgust with the other woman was not visible to the couple. After a moment, she composed her face once more into a mask that showed no trace of her true thoughts—one she had worn consistently for over a year—and reached her hand into the dark space. Her hand came back out holding a jar that contained a thick orange paste. There wasn't much left, but it would be enough for the current task. Later, she would brew more.

When she brought it over to Harry, he looked at the jar in her hand, over into the open pantry, then back at her hand. She glanced into the pantry as well, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was just five shelves that held jars containing various magical substances. Some were full while others had clearly been frequently used. Hermione's eyes detected nothing out of the ordinary, but still Harry stared.

"That's Burn-Healing Paste," he finally stated, indicating what she held.

"Yes," she replied in a guarded voice. She was irritated that she couldn't figure out what the man was thinking, but she didn't let that show.

"The jar is nearly empty," he said.

She relaxed. So that was it. He was worried there wasn't enough to heal his charred palms. "There's enough," she told him.

Harry shook his head. "No, I mean…" He paused for a moment, searching for words. "I have been with Ron on every mission, and he has never gotten burnt on the job."

Hermione felt herself go cold. Her numb brain couldn't think of anything to say to the revelation except, "He was a terrible cook." She flinched inwardly at the excuse as soon as it left her mouth. It sounded pathetic even to her.

Ginny shrugged, apparently accepting the explanation without too much of a fuss. After all, she wasn't the best cook herself. Why would she be when her mother did all the cooking in the house? It didn't come as a surprise to her that her brother lacked the skill as well. Harry, however, continued to stare at Hermione quizzically. It was almost as if he knew there was something wrong with what she said, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

That look unsettled her. In order to keep Harry from coming to any conclusions, Hermione decided to distract him. She popped the lid off the glass jar and ordered Harry into a chair as she dabbed the burn paste onto his hands. Ginny stood rigidly behind him, her hands placed possessively on his shoulders. Hermione rolled her eyes from beneath her long bangs. Jealousy was clearly another common trait among that family.

Once the ministrations were completed, the three former schoolmates sat around the small kitchen table, ready to talk.

"Why were you burning all those things?" Ginny asked immediately.

"I was angry," Hermione replied. She saw little harm in the statement. It was true enough, and didn't incriminate her in any way.

"At my brother?" Ginny asked in outrage. She was about to say more, but her husband put a soothing hand on her arm, preventing the angry woman's tirade. This was not why they had come.

"It's been five months, Hermione," Harry told her. Hermione only stared at him, her eyes not betraying any emotion. Harry plowed on nonetheless. "You need to get out. Get a breath of fresh air. See people. Come with us to the Burrow."

Hermione remained silent for several moments as she stared at her best friend and his wife. When she finally spoke, it was not what they had expected to hear. "Why did you wait five months?"

Ginny's mouth dropped open, but she quickly closed it and yelled in a shrill voice, "Don't you dare blame us for this! You're the one who chose to waste away in this old house and refused to see anyone!" Her face was turning a familiar shade and Hermione couldn't look at her sister-in-law anymore. Instead, she turned her gaze to Harry. His reaction had been the exact opposite of his wife's. Upon hearing Hermione's words, instead of becoming loud and defensive, Harry's face had fallen. An expression of guilt now marred his features. Hermione could have said something to comfort him, to assure him that it was all right because she knew he had his grief to work through. She could have told him that it was her fault for isolating herself from everyone. And yet, she said none of those things. She had been alone with _him_ for too long—abandoned by her friends and family—and her heart wouldn't allow her to feel for them yet.

* * *

><p>She couldn't stand the self-pity emanating from the hunched over figure across from her. He was grieving, she knew; it was more uncomfortable than even the glares that the redhead kept shooting her. She didn't want to watch others feel those things she had denied herself. Self-pity did no one any good, and Hermione had never succumbed to it. In the darkest period of her life, she had fought, she had lost, but she had survived. Physically, she was free now after removing her bindings, but spiritually, she knew the damage still remained. She knew that the others could see it, though they did not know the reason for it.<p>

"I told you we shouldn't have come," Ginny told her husband.

"Stop it!" Harry shouted, startling both women. "Hermione is our friend, our _family_. We are supposed to look out for family." He glared at his wife. "Besides, I didn't force you to come."

"Well I couldn't let you come alone!" Ginny shouted back.

Harry's anger dissolved and was replaced by bewilderment. "Why not?" He asked.

Hermione saw the moisture that began to gather at the bottom of Ginny's eyes, and the retort forming on her lips. Hermione quickly interrupted the start of the waterworks by saying, "I'll think about it."

Of course Hermione suspected why Ginny had tagged along on the visit, even though she had clearly opposed it. The woman had been afraid that if she left her husband and his best friend alone, the two—in their grief—might find comfort in each other, and that comfort might lead to other things. Ginny had not been about to risk losing her husband to Hermione, or worse, risk them creating a scandal in the public eye. Hermione voiced none of these suspicions, however. If Harry wasn't smart enough to figure things out for himself, he didn't deserve to know.

* * *

><p>She watched as the couple left her to her solitude, to <em>think<em> about dinner at the Burrow in a week. She would have to give that offer some thought, to plan out how best to continue her act. She heard the front door close, but the sound of footsteps told her she was not yet alone. When the redhead entered the living room, Hermione retained a calm exterior. When Ginny had walked to the door with Harry, she had still been teary-eyed and sniffled frequently. Now, only moments later, she seemed completely recovered. Rather, she had a smile on her face and acted as if nothing had happened.

"What do you want?" Hermione asked.

"Hermione, I know you've had a hard time with Ron's passing. We all have." Ginny started off in a falsely sympathetic voice that made Hermione want to hex the smile off her face. Oblivious to this, Ginny kept talking. "You know that the person in charge of Ron's case…" She looked Hermione over skeptically, taking in her unwashed clothes and unkempt hair. "Or maybe you don't. Anyway, that wizard Whitlock refuses to involve Harry in the case."

"I thought Harry was on a leave of absence," said Hermione.

Ginny scowled briefly at the interruption, but quickly cleared the expression from her features. "He's just a little upset with the whole ordeal, but he'd jump right back into things if it was for Ron's case. That's why I wanted you to go to Kingsley and ask him to put Harry in charge of the investigation. You are still on good terms with the Minister, aren't you?"

"If you want to get rid of Whitlock, why not just have Harry go talk to the Minister?"

Ginny waved the suggestion away dismissively. "Harry's too important to be bothered by these little tasks."

Hermione found this statement to be rather contradictive. If Harry was so important, then he should have held far more sway with the Minister than Hermione herself. "Does he even know you're doing this?"

The woman opposite gave another wave of her hand. "No. If enough of us, my parents, me, and you, go to Kingsley and demand that Whitlock be dismissed from the case, Harry will be happy enough when he finds out. There's no need to trouble him with the details until then."

Hermione had a lot to consider, but the impatient tapping of Ginny's foot told her the woman was expecting a quick answer, perhaps even praise for her brilliant idea. Hermione wanted to get rid of the woman to think, and so gave her a noncommittal answer, "I'll think about it."

The freckles seemed to pop out from the woman's face as she said, "Fine, have it your way." She swung around and tramped down the hall. The front door slammed shut behind her.

Hermione sank onto the floor and rested her head against the brick of the fireplace and closed her eyes. It was warm from the flames that crackled merrily as they consumed their meal. She thought it ironic that her husband's belongings were able to produce such warmth.


	8. The Return

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, be it the materials/characters from the books or the movies, etc.

**The Return:**

What had once been a kitchen bustling with life as the endless family members—immediate and extended—came and went through its entryways was now eerily silent. Instead of the multiple heads of red hair bobbing up and down around the long table and ducking under magical pots and pans, there was only one lone red mane within the room, seated at the large table. A cup of cold tea long ago forgotten by its maker sat on the wood. The solitary figure in the room stared out the window, her brown eyes out of focus. She saw the sky not as a stretch of dark gold as the waning light streamed into the dark kitchen, but as a wide expanse of space that was full of possibilities.

For practical reasons, she and Harry had moved back into the Burrow from their home in London to care for her aging parents until they had recovered from the shock of Ron's death. Following the first few months, after the shock and grief had numbed, life had settled into a melancholy pattern. The upstairs of the Burrow was quiet, though Ginny knew her mother was in her bedroom, huddled beneath the covers, hiding from the world in which two of her sons had died. Her father was unable to bear the pervasive silence of the house, so he spent long hours at the Ministry, throwing his energy into work. After the failed attempt at drawing Hermione out of her cave, Harry had claimed that the idleness was driving him insane, so he quit his sabbatical and returned to work. Charlie had returned to Romania when his time off from work had expired. George dropped by to check on their parents occasionally, but otherwise spent most of his time at the joke shop. She was the only one without an escape, so she sat at the kitchen table with her cold cup of tea and stared out a window, waiting for the family she once had to return.

It was a maddening feeling, staying still for so long. Finally, unable to bear the stifling silence any longer, Ginny stood from her chair and strode to the door. With a wrench, it opened to reveal the rolling hills of the space she had grown up calling her backyard. She summoned her broomstick with a flick of her wand, catching it deftly as it flew to her. She ran her hand over the smooth wooden handle lovingly. Her pride and joy was the latest Firebolt model—a memento of her time as a Holyhead Harpy. It was only two years old and still in pristine condition. The best Ron had ever had in his Quidditch days was a Cleansweep, she remembered with a twinge to her heart, but that had never mattered; she had always allowed him to take turns riding hers in their friendly backyard matches with Harry, George, and anyone else who was there at the time. In the months preceding his death, flying at the accelerated speeds offered by the broomstick had been the only thing that could abate his dark moods. That was the very same escape Ginny sought now as she mounted the broomstick. She dug her foot into the ground and pushed off, rapidly soaring toward the waning gold above her.

Ginny's lips stretched into a grin. She angled the tip of the broom handle to urge it into a steeper ascent. As the wind rushed past her, whipping the wild strands of red and the fabric of her robes, she could feel its icy claws stripping away her depression. At last, she could think clearly again.

Now that her mind was free from the fog of depression and pain, thoughts tumbled forth, vying for her attention. She tried her best to evaluate each of them one by one. Foremost on her mind was the joy of flying again. It had been a long time. When she had completed her Hogwarts education, the Holyhead Harpies had recruited her to their Quidditch team. With the abandon of someone fresh out of school and ready to take on life—whatever it may throw at her—she had of course accepted.

Everything had been wonderful at first. Sure, the daily training regimen was brutal, branding the various flying formations into her very being until her body could execute each one automatically. Yes, the early hours and late nights had been grueling to the point of her collapsing into bed or falling asleep on her feet in the shower. But she could accept all of that, because those hours in the sky and the exhilaration of the game had more than made up for the downfalls of the profession.

Ginny had rekindled her relationship with Harry, her childhood crush and intermittent boyfriend, after Voldemort's demise. During Harry's first year of training as an Auror, he had made frequent visits to Hogsmeade on the weekend while she snuck out of the school for their rendezvous. They saw one another often enough, with every other weekend and the holidays, that they managed to keep the relationship alive without too much difficulty. After she had joined the Holyhead Harpies and embarked on her—albeit short-lived—professional career and Harry began his probationary term at the Auror office, however, the physical distance between the two had become drastically increased. Even though magic made it infinitely easier for them to travel the leagues and see each other, it did nothing for the fact that neither had the time for numerous trips or extended breaks from their lives.

After two years of matches and tournaments—all of which she had enjoyed immensely—she had retired from the league, for Harry had proposed to her and she had readily accepted. She had thought it was only natural to marry the man whom she loved, but the redhead was also aware—courtesy of her mother—that as a newlywed couple, they could not live apart for entire months at a time and expect to stay close. So she had hung up her green robes with their gold talon insignia for the last time. At first, she had held no regret, for it had seemed to be just a natural progression in life: school, career, marriage.

The first year had been a good one where the novelty of marriage had given the uneventful days a certain charm to relieve the boredom. If she had preferred to be doing things other than sitting around the kitchen waiting for her husband's return every day, or cooking and cleaning from dawn until dusk, she didn't let herself think of it—for the first year, at least. She didn't know when it began, but the long days gradually lost their charm and little by little, the dullness of life crept in. The redhead remembered how frustrated she had felt—still felt—with nothing to occupy her time day after endless day. Once or twice a week, she and Harry would visit the Burrow, but besides that, her life held no excitement. If she was lucky, she would meet Luna or another friend from school for a day on the town, but they all had lives to live as well and therefore were rarely free.

The girl performed a somersault in the sky as her loneliness resurfaced, using the renewed rush of adrenaline to wrench her thoughts from that particular dark corner of her mind only for other paths to surface. When Harry had gotten that promotion to a lead investigator, she had been thrilled by his accomplishment. He had worked hard for the position, if her hours of solitude were anything to judge by. What she had not foreseen was that with a new role came new responsibilities that required more of his time and energy.

A tilt to the side and a roll back into an upright position was coupled with a struggle to flee an alley leading to bitter thoughts. When she and Harry had received the invitation for the celebration of Voldemort's defeat, she had been excited for the first time in months. It was a rare opportunity to be with her husband when he wasn't weary from a long shift at the Ministry. She had gotten to shop for new clothes with Luna the week beforehand, was able to dress up and go out in her husband's company. It would have been a perfect night, but it had ended in tragedy. When Ron had died, she had felt the loss tearing at her heart much as Fred's loss had done, except this time, there was no cause to blame, no handy faction of Death Eaters or a megalomaniac intent on human subjugation to point her finger at. After that night, almost everyone around her retreated from the outside world in some way or form.

Ginny dragged her mind from these subduing thoughts. She put on a burst of speed, intent on shaking off the morose mood accumulating around her. Perhaps if she soared across the green plains quickly enough, she could leave it all behind. She focused on the passing hills and the houses made small by the distance. These were familiar sights that transported her to a time when her mind knew not of the world's secrets and her heart knew none of life's grief.

* * *

><p>When the newly returned team leader finished reading the report that had been left on his desk, he immediately rushed out of his office and down the hall. Curious eyes followed the brunette's progress as he weaved between the other employees to get to the elevator.<p>

"Hi, Harry!" A coworker called as he stepped out of the lift.

"Hi, Neville. Sorry, got to run!" Harry replied as he slipped through the closing doors and jabbed the ground level button, leaving a bewildered Neville to stare at the descending lift.

"Where was Harry going in such a hurry?" Neville asked his colleagues as he sat down at his desk.

"He must've seen that huge stack of papers I gave him this morning," Roderick replied from his desk. "And decided to make a run for it." Neville looked over to see the blonde with his sneaker-clad feet resting on the desktop and reading a human magazine open on his lap.

"This stack?" Roderick looked up to see his superior standing in the doorframe to his office, a sheaf of papers in his hand. "The one about the drug ring using a suspected old abandoned warehouse to conduct business meetings?"

"That's the one," Roderick confirmed.

"Dru, you and Neville follow him and make sure nothing gets blown up," Ash ordered his subordinates.

"You don't think he went off to investigate the warehouse on his own, do you?" A hint of concern laced Neville's words.

Ash raised an eyebrow at the man. "You've known him far longer than I have," he replied.

Neville furrowed his brow. "You're right," he admitted dejectedly. The worried friend got up and headed toward the lift with Dru beside him. Fortunately, it was lunchtime, which meant that there was a steady flow of bodies crowding the main lobby, congesting the exits to the outside world. The two scanned the crowd and spotted the signature black uniform and a mop of dark hair pushing through the crowd, but its progress was being impeded by the mass of Ministry workers.

* * *

><p>They followed Harry to the building that had been mentioned in the report. They had cast Disillusionment Charms upon themselves and kept to the shadows of buildings to remain unseen, but the highly trained Auror was too focused on his mission; he hadn't looked back once.<p>

_If he keeps this up, I don't know that he'll be a leader much longer_, Dru thought to herself as she analyzed every mistake the man made. He was not keeping track of his surroundings to see if he was being followed. He didn't bother to conceal himself as he walked down the street, so of course everyone he passed turned their heads to catch a glimpse of the Savior of the Wizarding World. He was drawing unnecessary attention to himself and didn't appear to care the least. He made straight for the run-down hideout, in plain view of any lookouts that may have been posted. The critical list went on. The woman had heard from others that Harry Potter worked hard and took his job seriously, but part of her wondered, watching him, if the motivations behind his promotion hadn't been partly because of his fame. After all, who better to head the Aurors than the man who had been credited with almost single-handedly defeating You-Know-Who? He even gave guest lectures at Hogwarts to the wide-eyed young witches and warlocks. _That's probably not a fair judgment,_ she thought._ After all, if it was, they could have just promoted him to Department Head and be done with it._ The slight woman signaled to her partner, who crouched down beside her behind a separate building. The spot afforded them a good view of the back entrance to the dilapidated building, but it was far enough away that any spells placed to ward off intruders were unlikely to extend there.

"Shouldn't we go in too?" Neville asked.

"Not yet. Check for wards," she whispered.

Neville cast a worried eye at the door Harry had just entered, but did as he was told. He brought forth his wand and spoke several incantations, directing them toward the building. None of them had any effect until the last spell was spoken. This caused the tip of his wand to glow a soft pink. Neville immediately muttered a soft curse, for this was the indicator for a detection spell. It would alert the spell caster of anyone who entered the premises after the spell was in place. That meant some sort of meeting was definitely taking place here, but more importantly, whoever was partaking in the meeting knew Harry was there. Becoming more nervous, Neville quickly went about canceling the charm. Beads of sweat rolled down his face as he concentrated, forcing his eyes not to wander to the broken panes looking for telltale flashes of light. At last, his efforts were paid off by a soft pink glow as the active alert surrounding the warehouse collapsed. The two magically cloaked figures sprinted forward and silently gained access to the hideout.

* * *

><p>After a thoroughly liberating two hours of traversing the limitless sky, Ginny finally became conscious of the darkness. The sky was no longer bathed in gold, not even tinted with pink and purple. Realizing how late it was, she skillfully flipped her broomstick over and spiraled to earth. Adrenaline pumped through her body as the ground rushed to meet her. At the last possible moment, just before it seemed as if she would be flattened and her face would become a permanent addition to the ground, she pulled out of the dive. A few minutes later, she landed gracefully in front of her home.<p>

The newly invigorated girl opened the kitchen door and stepped into the dark room. She turned on the light and observed the emptiness it revealed. With a sigh, she began gathering the ingredients she would need to make dinner. That was when an idea struck her. Why not make the evening's meal with her own hands? No wand, no magic, just her own culinary abilities. Granted, her cooking skills weren't much, but practice made everything better. Unfortunately, she found herself unable to properly grasp the handle of the frying pan, resulting in it clattering to the tile floor. Her fingers were stiff with cold from flying so long without her gloves, making even the most ordinary items difficult to handle. It wasn't a good start to her endeavor, but stubbornness was a well-known Weasley trait, and she took full advantage of it. Taking out her wand, she cast warming charms on her hands to return the blood circulation to normal, then retrieved the pan and cleaned it off. She set it on the stove and began preparing the evening meal.


End file.
